28 February 2009

Ivell Incompetent Marketing

I wonder how the fuck her hideous boss Stephen Ivell knew, unless he too was slacking off on Facebook, one-handedly perving the comely Ms Swann.

Actually, play the CNN news video and blanch in horror at the odious Ivell's plucked-chicken coiffure and indented jumbled dentures: the spitting image of a wanker Essex man who would spend more time ogling nubile employees than attending to his company's marketing and logisticising.

What's the betting that Ivell's desk and computer enjoy what Diablo Cody cleverly coined as good 'Porn Shui': the screen invisible to those suddenly entering his foetid place of work.

Just as I'm sure that the doe-eyed Kimberley has been deluged with job offers - and, I'm happy to say, the Ivell site's contact tab seems to have crashed under hits by ill-wishers.

One glance at Ms Swann's virginal pure looks tells me that all red-blooded photo desks will be perched on her doorstep until she lands her next job - and what a publicity food frenzy *that* will be for the understanding new employer!

I tell you, chaps, the sooner KS is free of that peeping-tom Ivell Caliban, the better for all of us, and that goes for the moral health of British industry itself. No wonder we're in such a jam if the top brass pay more attention to a teenager's jotting on Facebook than to their own bottom line.

Bored: Speaking of bored, what sort of boss man is so bankrupt of management skills that he can't even organise the timetable and workload of a 16-yr-old trainee to hold her attention and motivation.

Come to think of it, what sort of CEO is himself so disorganised and idle that time hangs heavy on *his* masturbatory mitts to the extent that he's able to while away his working day lurking and drooling online.

Whatever pretence he puts over to his clients, Oily Ivell is well and truly exposed as a nasty piece of work to be kept well away from one's wife, daughters or parlour-maid.

I were a client, I'd cancel my contract sans delay.

By Melanippides' Merkin! I can think of a thousand better uses for a plummeting £ than financing this quasimodo's seed spilling over the flower of Essex maidenhood.

27 February 2009

"Grasping banker Sir Fred Goodwin gives two fingers to us all ... refuses to hand back a penny of the sickening £693,000-a-year pension he is plundering from taxpayers ... While millions of pensioners struggle on a pittance, one of the idiots most to blame for ruining their retirements lives like a king on public money."

Harness the tumbril, James. Fleet Street's on t'scent and there'll be blood on the sand ere Tsiknopempti is out.

26 February 2009

I'm getting a little too punch-drunk to keep posting evidence of how England is lost, but this one caught my eye because of the photo.

It seems that the "litter police" with powers to issue on-the-spot fines are now spying on people in anticipation of their dropping a butt.

But look at that worm writing down the details: he was born to the task. Can you imagine his private life, what it's like when he gets home and sits his family down to High Tea? Oh boy - his kid and Stevie Fowler's would have a lot in common.

No, but look at him. If I was a documentary maker wanting to recreate England's lowest moments, I'd call up Central Casting:

"Yes, hello, I'm making a film about London back in 2009 when we had those appalling types going round looking for smoker litter bugs to pounce on, and I want someone to play one of the "Black Watch". Tough one, I know."

"No worries, chief. Can do."

"No, I don't think you quite understand: I want someone to not only play a cunt but look the precise part."

"It is suggested that patrons should dress elegantly as the occasion is to be filmed by the renowned Phaeakonese director Costas Vorrias as part of a video he is making for the website of the Croquet Club of Scheria which is promoting the event."

Et voilà! That should be worth the 40 smackers alone: the sight of le tout Scheria studiously not looking at the cameras as they adjust to their least wrinkly profiles and the ladies adjust to their most chasmic cleavages. Oh what fun - my Nikon will be burning hot.

Alas, I will not be accompanied by any beauteous chasm because word leaked out and hints were dropped as to certain mamzels' availability for the night which left me in a delicate position of either inviting The Bevy and draining my entertainment allowance for this quarter, or taking one and being ostracised by the rest for the season. There is also the question of a certain lady's *mother* and rather large soldier brother whom I prefer not to offend.

STOP PRESS: The nosh was posh, the wines superb - and there was a prize for the most elegantly dressed lady which my mother won. You can't see her elegance because she is in foreground and back to us.

Nor can you see clearly the lady 2nd-to-end, far right, next to whom I sat and talked non-stop and could not take my eyes off. Spitting image of a Kate Bush of mature years.

23 February 2009

And look at that fuzz - drool drool. That boy gonna get some fan mail.

2006: Palaiokostas et crony escape from Korydallos in a helicopter, they get caught and back in jug.

They escape again in identical modus operandi

A guard manages to shoot himself in the hand during the fracas

I heard a chick with a gun covered them from the chopper during the getaway

I wonder how many unmarked Euros swapped hands there?

Zero Tolerance:"I won't tolerate this embarrassment," said Justice Minister Nikos Dendias, who asked for and received the resignations of the director, security secretary and head of inspection and control at Korydallos Prison.

"The government will not tolerate the current situation," he said in a written statement. "Those involved in this escape will be brought to justice and punished."

I daren't be rude about Minister Dendias because he's also our lawyer in Scheria - well, his name is on the company lertter-head and his signature on all communications but we do rather better than him: we have the hands-on service of Ms Maria Chytiri, efficient, impeccably connected and of such fragrant beauty that if this was a movie, she'd never have got near the role for being laughably too good-looking.

Anyway, back to Niko's sackings: I don't expect the out-of-jobbers will weep to deeply. The cash under the table will ease their retirement.

22 February 2009

Good questions, but you won't find them answered here. This is a simple introduction to poorly photographed foodstuffs and horrid recipes.

It's a wonder anyone in the 40s, 50s and 60s gained any weight; it's a miracle that people didn't put down their issue of Life magazine with a slight queasy list to their gut, and decide to sup on a nice bowl of shredded wheat and nothing else.

It wasn't that the food was inedible; it was merely dull. Everything was geared for a timid palate fearful of spice. It wasn't non- nutritious - no, between the limp boiled vegetables, fat-choked meat cylinders and pink-whipped-jello dessert, you were bound to find a few calories that would drag you into the next day

Do click on the video and listen to the appalling Stephen Fowler sounding off. What a bonanza for the producers. They must have cracked open the champagne when they got this crackpot duo to agree to the show.

Heaven knows why he agreed if he's doing as well as he says.

No doubt, his equally horrendous identikit Stepford wife pushing him towards PR for her life-coach company.

The details of the show don't matter altho' I'd love to have seen a clip or two of her just *asking* for a clip round the lug 'ole from her good ol' boy surrogate 'husband'.

But it's Stephen who's the wally. God, the prig is exactly like me and behaving how I might have except I'm too weak and too fond of my children.

That accent says it all: Estuary meets Michael 'Dirty Scoundrel' Caine meets David Brent meets that oily sneery character actor from the 1980s that cornered the market in Stephen Fowlernuff roles.

His attitude to the hapless offspring - and the son's poignant response to dad's arrogant pushy blindness ... what a wanker.

And she's a piece of work, too, yeh? Perfect Lady Macbeth to his breezy self-referential obtuseness. Exhibit A of the sort of Americaine least capable of carrying off a marriage to a bogus chap like our Simon: feeding off his snootiness and believing herself packaging haut-Anglophilia with whatever qualities she's meant to have.

I was married to an American and she was never infected by one smarmy sliver of trying to be something she wasn't. She hung on to her honesty and directness despite her proximity to and the danger of anything rubbing off from me.

It's not their fault but a tribute to the show's success in producing these hilarious stock characters and setting them up bang to rights for a choicely edited fall.

Of course he was told to overdo the Brit asshole bit, and of course they found a family that would push the opposite buttons. That's showbiz.

But as I say, this Fowler berk is a classic, down to his pretentious T-shirts and selfish use of his son to smooth over the omissions in his own yoof. Fish in a barrel. Great TV. Should've shoved a wig on Fatty Goody for a cameo role as The Nanny.

Another way Stefano resembles me is his living in the US in such a way as to be perfectly positioned to dine off the old Brit la-di-dah superiority aplomb, all the while adopting the cool Americanisms we could never sneak under the BS radar back in Blighty. A soul brother.

What a piece of work, both of us.

CRY BABY: If you can take the grating accent, here's Stephen blubbing about the rules. GREAT television. He totally weaves his own noose.

21 February 2009

~ Good Vibrations ~

I'm plonking this here as reference source for when next quizzed on what's new or good in the market.

I'm not an expert but I once enoyed (yes, I did) an unlikely tie-up with an angel-face proprietor of a sex shop to whom I repped 12 copies of Jeremy Sandford's "Prostitutes" (for which I performed dynamite PR including a press confab for the nationals complete with TV cameras) and later arranged a signing session with the very hey-class whore that featured in the book and offered herself as token interviewee. A very handsome woman, I must say. BID.

The proprietress and I became good drinking mates and knowing my flair for writing boss copy, one day asked me to vamp her catalogue.

I did so and showed it to her and she made some adjustments to which I made some adjustments. Then we got out a couple of bottles of bubbly and went thru the catalogue and the champagne and arrived at even better wording ... and then I made my excuses and left.

She never paid me but when I took shy young things in there to persuade them to adorn their lithe bodies in suitable gear, she always 'dressed' them perfectly according to their assets and took away their prejudices and inhibitions.

So - shoot ahead many years to a conversation with a very proper lady with an even properer body during which the chat touched on sex aids etc whereupon I demonstrated my improper knowledge and familiarity with the more exotic range of toys and exciters.

Come to think of it, it was the improperly bodied society lady who I celebrated in song with the verse:

"I love it when the Da-da* sun burns downMad dogs and Englishmen turn browShe maybe Lady Prim back home in London townBut she's built for sin where the Da-da* sun goes down"

* I have to go "da da" lest that accursèd Google Alert pick up the name of the isle and broadcast the existence of this blog to the locals.

Loipon, my fate was sealed and before you could say Joy-Tickler, I was the local encyclopaedic Love Guru ("TM".

You know how these things spread: now I'm consulted in sotto voce tones by THE most unlikely people to whom my protestations of being outta date fall on deaf - er - 'ears'.

"Oh go on, you needn't be shy with me; I bet you tell M-- all about the latest gear."

What i do, i confess, is invent stuff and the wilder my fantasies the wider - er- eyed they become. ("Oh goodness, that is soo funny ... where do they think these things up? I say (even sotterer voce ... you don't happen to have a sample I could look at ...?")

With this timely article I can palm them off with this link and a wink.

Novacastrian

I never realised that's what a native of Newcastle is called. Good trivia question.

Actually, I only looked into the article on how Geordies can handle the cold because, back in Bainbridge, I used to wonder how and why those infuriatingly hearty types who insisted on sitting outside on the deck could make the crossing in mere T-shirt and shorts.

Speaking of which, I once watched with resentful scorn some tough looking chap executing katas right in front of the lower deck window.

To do that sort of thing, you have to think yourself at least good enough to escape mockery.

We could all see that he wasn't VERY good, but none of us could do better so we sat and just watched. Until some meek looking chap went out and engaged him conversation (over which our karateka looked none too pleased) and it didn't get any better as the man suddenly demonstrated how they ought to have been executed. Of course, none of us inside could hear what was going on but it was clear once the meek guy flowed into action.

18 February 2009

Crane Brain

I know this dates back to June 19 2008 but I've only just seen it, poring nostalgically over old Police Blotters.

It is sooo sweet that there are still dinosaur saps out there to be duped.

This has everything:

The tax avoidance line

The Afro name and address

Request for money

The perfect victim

No wonder these frauds go on - the greedy gullibles are still with us.

"1:19 p.m. A Bainbridge man came to the station to report himself as the victim of Internet fraud.

He said he had received an email message from a “Lemmens Crane Systems” company. The email said the company needed to avoid taxes and would send him a check for $4,500, and asked him to wire back sums of $2,500 and $1,550, keeping $250 as profit.

The man deposited the check in his bank account and, as directed, wired $2,500 through Western Union to an “Akwetey Elijah” in Ghana, Africa.

The company’s “representative” soon emailed back demanding the $1,550 be sent. The man sent the $1,550, but then became suspicious [my itals] and requested the transaction be canceled.

The man’s bank advised him that the check was fraudulent, and that he would have to repay the bank for the wired money. The case was recorded."

Mz Goody is the crass cow who got herself in hot water over racist treatment of a fellow Big Brother house-mate (see gratuitous babe shot)

Actually, more like Big Sister, except for the gargantuan Jade dwarfing everyone else.

I don't know if Mz G got paki-woggy on Shilpa Shetty, but Golli there's a name to make sure you pronounce right, right?

Anyway, that bloke up there in the photo isn't fatso Goody but the brilliant PR maestro, Max Clifford, who orchestrates all these money-making tabloid coups we read not *in* the tabloid press (coz we don't read such rubbish, do we?) but in our posh papers' coverage of the coverage of the disgraceful publicity attracted by all the coverage of the gutter press.

Tell you wot, maestro - synergy is the word for your next move. Let's see what we've got.

The lumpen Goody coming up for Last Rites as she goes down slow with the Big C (actually not that slow).

£1.5 million brilliantly negotiated for shots of the chavvy wedding to her jailbird bloke (who's not allowed to stay out for the wedding night, so the redtop paps can climb down from their boudoir perches), Anyway, cheap at the price, chum.

Always good value when off the waffle, Maxie is equally convincing when he's in chatterbox gear, thanks to a killer combination of *that* accent and the wonderfully serious pose he adopts when pontificating on his cliffordian puffery hackery wizardry. One of a kind is our Maximilan.

Charm ... dignity: You won't see those unlikely words on this page in the same sentence as that Goody creature, but the Teleg's Jenny McCartney thinks it'll get eyeballs.

17 February 2009

You probably found this silly movie absolutely riveting and an hilarious satire (or do I mean 'pastiche'?) of the whole hit-man gangster Mafioso genre, but I found it grew more idiotic and pointless by the minute.

I said so to the video stores boss and advised him to alert all his Greek customers to think twice before taking it out - despite the dramatic macho jacket.

For one thing, I cautioned, it is exceedingly silly and unfunny in the way that only the English can be. Lord knows how Michael Gambon was conned into appearing.

Imagine my surprise and annoyance when I saw the 'out' ticket on it.

"I see some poor customer has fallen into the trap of taking out 'The Baker'," I chuckled.

"Yes, I tell him what you say and he want even more see it and what is so silly English."

It came back and I enquired and was told he had asked for his money back, such was his incomprehension and disappointment (I could not see how the Welshisms and camp serious humour could translate into Greek, in which case the subtitles would be a total mismatch to the action).

Then I kept seeing it unavailable and when I asked again the boss laughed:

"I tell them what you say but they all think they know English better than other person so they take it out. No-one like it, is one of our most popular movies, always out."

Back in the mists of the early 2000s, when I was still in Bainbridge-en-Mer, I subbed to the free Mailwasher, spam spurner supreme.

Then I had the usual crashes - bang went my Outlook mail - then I moved to Londinium and thence to Prosper's Isle where I had 2 more crashes (ditto) .

This morning I thought what the hell, I'll reactivate MW and did so and set it in motion and, damn me, if it isnt loading every mail for the last 7 years (!) and thus retrieving all the lost mail.

It'll take me yonks to go thru and delete but they're so clearly presented with spam marked and ready for deleting that it's no price to pay to have all that lost mail back - and what a walk down Othos Memory to read all those old messages.

Can't go on; can't stop reading

David Sexton has long been a writer/reviewer I've admired and by whose name my eye is always flagged.

In Jan 26th's Evening Standard he reviews Stefan Zweig's The Post Office Girl, which is neither here nor there because what caused me to sit back in awe was his writing about Simon Gray's reaction to Zweig's Beware of Pity:

"Gray begins reading the novel and finds it so compelling that it makes him forget "the cancer and the prognosis" for hours at a time.

'The great thing is that if I turn to Stefan Zweig's 'Beware of Pity' I can escape for as long as I'm reading it, which is why I've been going so slowly.

Also, it's too good to read except with the closest attention, and so painful that I have to put it down constantly.'

"It's a telling description of what it feels like for anybody to read this great book, about a young Austrian cavalry officer who, at his first grand party, mistakenly asks the host's daughter to dance, not realising she is crippled. He is overcome with guilt and shame — and these feelings lead him into a relationship with her and ultimately disaster. Zweig presents every moment of feeling and sensation so vividly that, just as Gray describes, you can hardly bear to go on at the same time that you can't stop for a moment."

Not just a telling description of reading this great book, but any book that moves us, and Sexton absolutely nails it in one.

With so many of today's mediocre books being assessed by equally mediocre and tongue-tied reviewers, it's a real pleasure to hitch one's books-page reading to a thoughtful, articulate judge.

Alas, Fleet Street being in the throes of self-destruction and the arts pages the first to be pruned, I'm not fooling myself that talent like Sexton's will be around much longer.

With oligarch gazillionaire Александр Евгеньевич Лебедев having just bought Sexton's Standard, I expect Lebedev will be out to Tempest Isle in his floating vodka palace, in which case I shall cadge my usual invite to rub hip bones with those unsmiling leggy Natashas and test Alexi out on his artistic sensibilities.

(Actually, everyone pronounces it more like Woyers, which I found cool at the time.)

Same as I totally envied top Woyer Michael Beck's arrow-head nose, mine being such a shapeless squishy protuberance that I was convinced no babe could fancy me (cf Beckers over there with a hot honey clinging on for dear life).

But I digress (BID, hereon).

So, suddenly Les Ws have to step lively back to Coney Island with all these freakish murderous other gangs on their trail.

Reason I'm yammering on about this old movie is that no sooner do I comment on my phone call to Sir Jeffrey of Bezos Studios with my brill idea for "Warriors vs Joker Redux" (luncheon included) than one of my devoted readers sends me a nostalgic link to the movie.

1979. I was 33 and yet I remember being excited by it like a 14-yr-old.

For god's sake, I was a Titan PR hack of the UK book biz: Saul Bellow, Gunther Grass, Vidal, Piers Read, Tom Sharpe, the Clay-flooring Henry Cooper, all under my belt.

Member of all the clubs, habitué of Muriel's, drinking mate of Francis Bacon and Tom 'Doc Who' Baker (remind me to tell my Bacon/Baker story) ... what was I doing thrilling to *this* kind of flick?

I found the white-faced Baseball Clubbies the most sinister, the Lizzies totally hot and sexy - and all that running - dude! - I think I quit the Gauloises for a whole three days after that, just in case I had to hotfoot my way out of a jam. Whew!

I have a terror of being attacked by someone with a baseball bat or axe handle.

Dept of BID: When my American pal Alex Baggio (outta Pittsburgh PA) came to stay with me - big guy, used to do his katas each morning - we were drinking once over in Balham and three locals decided to pick a fight over the weird accent he was stuck with, that and the fact that he was wearing some rattle-snake skin bracelet.

Goaded too far, he suggested we move inside at which the trio rose from their seats and one of them produced a knuckle-duster.

Al had been complaining about the loose leg on his chair that kept pitching him sideways. As he got up, he picked up the chair and broke it over the table to get the leg, then he pitched into them, whacking and kicking and head-buttiing and then whacking again when they made to get up. Every move economical and very very hard

The guv'nor came whizzing out and told the three known trouble-makers to fuck the fuck off.

Then he turned to Al: "'n you can piss the piss off ahter here."

Al didn't look too phased, all inna day's heat.

"What?" he asked.

The publican looked at him - I mean, 3 agin 1, what was he going to say?

"You. Out!"

Al looked round at me with exaggerated shrug. We were in the biergarten, how much outer could we be?

Thanks for reminding me - Tom Baker in The Colony Room Club with Francis doing his generous thing and going round with the champagne offering it to stranger spongers. Muriel's had a TV hanging from the ceiling, volume down, no distraction. One day it was showing a Dr Who episode and there was Tom, en-coiled by trademark scarf, so we paused our drinking to mock and jeer and take the piss.

Francis - "That looks like you"

Tom - "It is me you c**t"

FB: "What are you doing up there?"

TB: "See that? Twenty million people watch it world-wide.

I bet twenty-five thousand people wouldn't know a fucking Francis Bacon if you shoved one up their arse".

14 February 2009

Obit

London Times

"Today we mourn the passing of a belovèd old friend, Common Sense who has been with us for many years.

No one knows for sure how old he was, his birth records long lost in bureaucratic red tape. He will be remembered as having cultivated such valuable lessons as:

Knowing when to come in out of the rain

Why the early bird gets the worm

Life isn't always fair

Maybe it was my fault.

Common Sense lived by simple, sound financial policies (don't spend more than you can earn) and reliable strategies (adults, not children, are in charge).

His health deteriorated rapidly when well-intentioned but overbearing regulations were set in place. Reports of a 6-year-old boy charged with sexual harassment for kissing a classmate; teens suspended from school for using mouthwash after lunch; and a teacher fired for reprimanding an unruly student, only worsened his condition.

Common Sense lost ground when parents attacked teachers for doing the job they themselves had failed to do in disciplining their unruly children.

It declined further when schools were required to get parental consent to administer sun lotion or an Aspirin to a student, but could not inform parents when a student became pregnant and wanted an abortion.

Common Sense lost the will to live as churches became businesses and criminals received better treatment than their victims.

Common Sense took a beating when you couldn't defend yourself from a burglar in your own home and the burglar could sue you for assault.

Common Sense finally gave up the will to live after a woman failed to realize that a steaming cup of coffee was hot. She spilled a little in her lap and was promptly awarded a huge settlement.

Common Sense was preceded in death by his parents, Truth and Trust, by his wife, Discretion, by his daughter, Responsibility, and by his son, Reason.

Feb 24 2009

Bit late in the day to keep dissing Bush but I have a particular fondness for Margaret Wise Brown's original, which I only discovered when I got to the USA and started a family. My own childhood was spent in complete ignorance of this fine story.

V sentimental: my gals grew up with me reading their mom 's edition of the real thing. I got quite hooked on the illustrations and the way darkness subtly falls.

It must be one of the most iconic book jackets going - whatever iconic means in this context.

Oh go on. Make me feel good. Tell me that animated gif across there is the crudest rudest crotch-bulging pulsing pack of heart-shaped Victor's Secret Y-fronts to grace a family blog. (Yayy, I got the VS link in)

It is exaactly like a mandrake root straining at every Fruit of the Loom fibre.

Throb ~ Pulse ~ Puisse ~ Surge.

Oh pshaw, don't be such prudes. It's only once a year and then I go back to demure mode.

Speaking of Vickie's Secret, I used to take Cost Centre #2 - The Spitfire - up to Kitsap Mall where I'd hand over a pittance of pocket money and watch her vanish into the fray, her pert derrière going tick-tock the way young things' do when they've got the loot and the Agèd P has at last been mall-trained to siddown, drink the Kool-Aid 'n' shaddup. (Do you know, I swear I read somewhere that it wasn't actually Kool-Aid that Jones doled out. If that's true, what a wogging PR disaster to be landed with).

But back to The Spitfire, a gal who knew how to play her dad. She should write a book.

The man looks daggers at me as if "Traitor! Do you have to be walkin' around blowing it for the rest of us." She gives me a benevolent smile as if, "Thanks, hon - right on cue."

I suddenly think, "Yeh! Yeh! - right on! I'm still in trim, I *am* the sorta guy to have a hot honey at home who'd look good in that sexeh skimperie ... gimme a private showing - nudge wink, know what I mean, squire?

So I strut around, keeping the pinko bag on the outside for all to see. (Yo! Dudes! Who else has a li'l chickadee at home - purty face, chantilly lace? You, suh? How's about you, bubba?)

My rêverie suddenly shattered by appearance of la tigresse:

"Daaad!! How long you been walking around like that? Why didn't you hide it, put it in another bag so no-one sees it? Oh my gahd, all my friends come here, they coulda seen you. Give them here, and walk back there and don't talk to me." Frozen mask features, loping stride not looking back. Silent drive back until we reach DQ when she has to soften if she wants a good ol' junk food lunch.

Later I'm telling S about it and she asks, "And you took it? You allowed her to bully you like that?"

Erm, don't you? I mean, she's got this killer sulk.

"Not with me, she hasn't. Anyway, what about this martinet atmosphere she chafes under? She comes back looking glum and persecuted and talks about how strict you are ..."

I'll tell you how she comes back - laden down with goodies that indulgent pa pays for.

"Well, I give her money, too."

You do? Ack ptui! I've been so impressed at her shopping on an impossible budget, I even reward her with even more wampum.

"Listen to me. Sweetie? Don't ever become a parent - you're not cut out for it. With your luck you'd sire some ... some ..."

Some Spitfire?

"Precisely."

Aaarrrggghhhh! Mercy!!There is no God!!!

"Buffoon. But look after yourself.

I might dump her on you next Wednesday, so why not take her to the Music Project? She likes seeing you do your monster raving loony Dave Lee Roth act."

Take it from me, I am a curmudgeon and minstrelsy snob who rarely gives the time of day (let alone money) to the half-baked plunkers, scrapers and crooners I see around town.

Kerry has caught me out and I must prepare to eat my words.

Still on the subject of freelance entertainers, don't you sometimes get the feeling that most of those al fresco 'musicians' scraping a living in the gutter are down there because that's the exalted height their 'talent' and sales sans-savvy has taken them? I know I do.

Not La Leatham, who seems frighteningly high-powered, mobile and organised for a busker.

Goodness, all I managed in my day was playing free for every police ball and CID charity (so's to keep the boys in blue sweet, you understand); oodles of private and office parties (ditto senior Fuzz).

The fresh air stuff was St Johns Wood/Baker St/Swiss Cottage/Clapham during weekdays and that sprawling Hyde Park/Marble Arch arondissement during weekends.

Inspired by KL, I'll be adding to this post by way of:

Pompous comments

Withering critiques

Tips on display material

Float and currencies

Positioning of collecting box

How long to stay when 'suggested' to move on

Give-aways and incentives

Repertoire

Diction

Dress code

Courtesy and eye-contact

But KL is streets (pun) above the average entertainer's calibre and marketing know-not.

Shudder ~ there's a ton of busker clips on Youtube, mostly deplorable. KL is the breath-of-fresh-air exception - plus she is extremely attractive and personable, which usually helps with the punters.

It'll be fun to write about my old trade and repay back in genial pointers some of the more tangible wealth street strumming has brought me.